


Lessons Kings Learn

by captainjackspearow



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Character Study, Chefs Kiss... Growth, F/F, F/M, Feral Laguz, Grief/Mourning, Kids Learning from their Parents' Failures, Leadership, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serenes Massacre, Spoilers for literally all of both games, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28203417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainjackspearow/pseuds/captainjackspearow
Summary: Or, difficult lessons monarchs learn before it's too late.(Unlike those who came before them).A series of character studies, from pre-Path of Radiance to post-Radiant Dawn.
Relationships: Lay | Ranulf/Skrimir, Leanne/Naesala (Fire Emblem), Reyson/Tibarn (Fire Emblem), past Naesala/Reyson
Kudos: 5





	Lessons Kings Learn

**Author's Note:**

> Take a shot every time I write a character study fic that involves the trauma of battlefield command that people weren't ready for/didn't want.

_Finally,_ there is a war on.

There is a war on, and he is confined to Gallia _._ Of course, they don't _call_ it confinement. Still doesn't change the fact that it is, that he's been left behind like some overzealous child when instead he could be tearing the throats out of the _bastards_ who dared steal the lives of their citizens, dared to twist them and warp them and turn them on their allies and kinsmen alike.

He feels half-feral himself with the indignity of it all, because there are but _two_ in this entire nation who could possibly _hope_ to stand against him in battle, and yet-

He growls, slamming his shoulder against the fool unfortunate enough to agree to spar with him, turning quickly to pin them to the sand. The victory is easy.

It’s also futile.

None of this matters. His strength, the importance of victory, fuck, even the lack of _precedent_ matters little, if at all, because arguing the matter will get him nowhere when it’s clear to him his uncle is denying him this solely to prove a point – _you aren’t ready._

_-_

_He wasn’t ready._ His blood tastes like the smell of a battlefield, the way it always should have – bitter, rotting, and unexpectedly horrifying.

Ranulf carries him across a field of his broken people as they retreat. _Ranulf,_ of _all_ people _,_ hauls the form of the man who ought to be the strongest second only to _his uncle_. Ranulf, the man who dueled that beorc _and had sense enough to retreat when pressed._

A thousand cold, empty eyes stare back at him, unable to lift his head enough to turn his gaze away, too shell-shocked to close his own. Ranulf’s shoulder jars his wounded side, the blood smearing into his fur, but the eyes still follow him when he flinches. Hundreds upon hundreds of dead-eyed stares.

The battlefield seems to stretch on forever, ceaseless. Corpses of well-trained warriors, of barely grown _children,_ torn apart on the riverbanks all the same.

There are others – of course there are others. The _monsters_ who’d butcher them _,_ bleeding out, cut down by claws and talons and beorc iron. But there are footsoldiers he recognizes among them, cheap armor rent asunder, and young Crimean recruits with their flimsy spears snapped in two, and Ranulf’s near-sprint is making it all worse, not just the pain of the motion but the overwhelming _speed_ of it all. Bodies begin to blend together into something worse, an amalgam of indistinguishable parts, a sea of broken bones and cold eyes that stare like they’ve seen _everything,_ watched him fall, stood witnesses to his failure and his _failure and his-_

Ranulf, he thinks, would have made a better king. He doesn’t tell the others that, though the realization hits him in the chest like the flat of a blade.

He learns then, amidst Begnion’s treachery, fleeing like fools through the dead and the dying – it wasn’t his fool pride alone that his uncle was trying to spare him from.

-

Ranulf insists on stitching him up, and he wants to kiss the man for it, for sparing him the indignity of having to face the beorc healers, for gentleness he’s not certain he deserves.

For not sparing him the look of tired exasperation he’s grown so used to. Not now. Not when he’s finally realized it’s warranted.

“It’s going to scar if you don’t let someone mend the underlying tissue,” Ranulf says, grimacing at his handiwork. “I can call-"

“It should,” he finds himself gritting out, interrupting. “It’s well earned-“

“This isn’t a time to cling to your _pride, Skrimir-“_

“I’m not even _remotely_ proud of this,” he interjects, cutting Ranulf off. “I should have listened. You know I know this. I _should_ have-“

The tent flaps fling open, stopping both of them in their tracks, and he flinches away from Ranulf’s hand, craning his neck, preparing to bark at whoever thought it’d be funny to laugh, to lecture him like a child for this, but he doesn’t have to.

The Greil tactician stands in the entrance to the tent, having marched in with authority he doesn’t _have,_ glaring at him.

Ranulf bristles. Soren continues to glare. His voice, when he speaks, is barely on the polite side of indignation.

“I think,” he insists, eyes firmly trained on Skrimir’s own, “that we need to have a conversation.”

Ranulf’s face tightens into a barely-restrained grimace. “You’re skilled, and I respect you greatly as a combatant, Soren, but this isn’t remotely your place.”

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Soren bluntly responds. “You,” he continues, still staring straight at Skrimir, “need to listen to something.”

Ranulf opens his mouth as if to protest, but stops when Skrimir rests a hand on his shoulder, closing it.

Clearly beyond frustrated, clinging to the last vestiges of self-restraint Skrimir finds _himself_ so often exhausting, Ranulf turns towards him. He nods at the other man, because whatever is about to happen, he's certain it's... not unwarranted. His second turns to leave, shaking his head. 

Soren, meanwhile, walks right up to him, staring skeptically at the stitches that trace his side. Ranulf laid them out neatly, but the blade carved through most of his side, the wound curling around his hip all the way up to the front of his shoulder.

“You’re an idiot. You should have let a healer help him with this.”

“Do you have,” he asks, wincing as a cold hand presses to his side, first from the sting and then from the perpetually uncomfortable sensation of flesh knitting itself back together, “ _any other business_ here than to criticize how I tend to my own wounds?”

“I wasn’t speaking about those,” Soren continues, brusquely.

“Great. Spare me the lecture. I’m certain Ranulf has plenty to say on the matter, and your Ike, not to mention everyone _else-“_

“ _Ike,”_ Soren says, “did the same damn thing, you idiot.”

He pulls back from the cold hand. He’s not going to acknowledge the fact that the deep, burning ache in his side is a little less deep, but he doesn’t have to. Soren’s eyes are cold, angry, and-

-there’s pain there, too. Enough to confuse him into silence.

“It was the castle at Fort Pinell. Zelgius was commanding the Daein forces. And like a fool, Ike insisted on engaging him alone.”

“I thought,” Skrimir says quietly, “he was a general of Begnion?”

Soren just shakes his head. “No. Neither. I’m not sure who he’s taking orders from, but it’s the same man – that much I know. But, like an idiot, _knowing_ what that man was, he _insisted,_ half-blind with the desire to avenge a father that didn’t care enough to tell him the truth _._ And everyone else naively agreed that it was something he ‘had to do’ to grieve.”

He pauses, examining the edges of Skrimir's wound. “Now, I know he has the composure to admit when he’s outmatched. But he didn’t at the time, and he could have easily have died, and where would we be now?”

Skrimir snorts. “Is this your way of telling me you actually care?”

He’s rewarded with another glare for that. “I had to help Titania haul his battered body out of the castle as it collapsed. He apologized later for forgetting he had other people counting on him to lead them, and to do so without taking stupid, unnecessary risks, but if he’d _died,_ he wouldn’t have been able to do so. Your decision today was foolish beyond even that. I don’t know what inspired you to-”

“I get it,” he grits out. “You don’t need to rub it in. I _know._ ”

But Soren refuses to shut up.

“I think,” he says, coldly, “you need someone to force you to recognize how many people are dead on that field because of you. How many of _your_ people _will_ be as a direct result of what you’ve done today, because of your ridiculous insistence on maintaining your pride.”

The air grows cold in the tent, but he cannot be bothered, because how _dare_ he, this little _hypocrite-_

_“-_ how many for _yours?_ ”

Soren blanches. Good. He _should_ feel off-guard for assuming he’s a complete idiot.

“Two can play at that game,” Skrimir says, voice barely restrained. “Do you think I’m any less observant than the others? You reek of Goldoa, and I would have to have been living under a rock to not have heard what happened to Almedha-“

“- _Nothing,_ ” Soren hisses, interrupting, “ _happened_ to Almedha, she did _everything herself, it was-“_

“-so how _many,_ ” Skrimir repeats, something snapping deep inside him, “for _yours?_ ”

He’s still burning with enough rage to keep him from thinking straight as Soren storms out of the tent, slamming into Ranulf’s side as he passes. But the anger burns away when he sees Ranulf’s face, unrestrained with both horror and concern, and he _knows_ he overheard, knows he knows Skrimir thinks he’s thinking the same, he has to _know-_

“Are you,” Ranulf starts, but he doesn’t get to finish the question before Skrimir cuts him off with an apology.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, because he doesn’t know where else to begin, and Ranulf starts to protest, but thinks the better of it, because Skrimir isn’t going to let him brush this shitty, irresponsible choice off with the rest of the things he knows the other man’s chalked up to his inexperience with war and beorc tactics and everything other than brute force.

“I’m sorry,” Skrimir continues. “Nothing I say could even remotely make this right. You’re both right – it was foolish, I was thinking only of my pride, badly enough that they were able to _play_ off of it like that. I should have listened to you.”

Ranulf nods gently in agreement.

“I failed them,” he says, and the reality of that strikes a chord somewhere deep inside him. He can feel his face burning with the sudden shame of it. “I failed Gallia.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Ranulf’s footsteps are the only thing audible among the gentle background chatter of the army campground beyond the tent as he makes his way over, sitting gingerly on the cot beside him.

“Skrimir,” he says softly, “they all love you. They know, and they still love you. I don’t think you’ve lost their faith, though I agree, what you did today was a... huge mess isn't maybe the best way to phrase it, but-”

“ _How,_ ” he spits out, voice cracking, “am I supposed to face them after what I did? We’ve as good as lost the war over it.”

“I don’t know, Skrimir,” Ranulf sighs, “but they want you regardless, and you owe it to them to face them.”

“And for what it’s worth,” he continues, a gentle hand squeezing Skrimir's good shoulder, “I wasn’t disappointed, Skrimir. I was _terrified._ I thought I’d have to carry back your corpse. I’m counting myself among that number – I wouldn’t have anybody else.”

“I need to apologize to Soren,” he says, after a long minute of parsing the implicit affection in those words.

Ranulf laughs: a quiet, unamused sound. “Soren needs to mind his own fucking business.”

“I was unnecessarily cruel. And he was correct.”

Soren _was_ correct, he thinks later, as he asks Ranulf about Ike, about Fort Pinell, about whether he was similarly worried about hauling the form of a man he cared about from the bloody consequences of a fool's errand back then, when Skrimir was angrily blunting his claws against training dummies and sparring partners alike in a child's tantrum.

"No," Ranulf had said, quietly, "but I shouldn't have let him walk in alone."

-

It takes a couple days to find a good time for it - to swallow his pride - during which they march. Or rather, they run, the army quickly fleeing Beignion's, and he tries his best to pretend the stitches don’t pull, that he’s not the one leaving blood in his own footprints all over camp.

He finds Soren sorting through a pile of papers outside a command tent, too engrossed in reports of enemy movement to notice his approach until Skrimir’s shadow blocks his light. Soren tries to brush him off with some meaningless excuse – that he’s busy, that whatever he needs should probably just be redirected to Ike, that he’s wanted elsewhere – and turns away, begins to hurriedly pull his papers together.

“Please,” Skrimir begs, holding a hand up as Soren moves to run, “please let me apologize.”

Soren freezes. A single piece of paper flutters to the ground.

Skrimir picks it up, holds it out to him, and tries again. “I cannot pretend to understand your situation-”

“-then don’t _try,_ ” Soren hisses, grabbing the paper from him, eyes firmly trained on the stack in his hand - anywhere but Skrimir's own face.

“-but throwing that back in your face simply because you were right and I didn’t want to think about you _being_ right was wrong of me.”

“How generous of you.” His voice drips with sarcasm, but Skrimir knows there’s something deeper to his bitterness. The man cloaks himself in it like it will protect him far beyond wind or thunder. “Anything else, or is that it?”

"I understand if you don't want to speak about it, but-"

"I _don't_ ," Soren interrupts. "And I will never. So don't bother. I'm leaving."

"Okay," Skrimir says, softly. "But let me say one thing, please - I don't-"

"Speak up or get out of my fucking way," Soren says, flatly.

"Your nature," he interjects. "That's not- I was talking about something I didn't understand, but I have no issue with _you,_ Soren. I need that to be clear."

Soren snorts, and shoves him out of the way, but Skrimir catches him by the shoulder.

"I'm serious."

"No, you're just an idiot."

"Perhaps, but not in this."

"Your people seem to think otherwise, so I'd suggest you keep your observations regarding my supposed _nature_ to yourself if you want to retain your limbs."

"My people-"

"I'm done talking about this," Soren says, shrugging his hand off and ducking quickly down past the surrounding tents, disappearing into the bustle of the army camp.

"...think what?" Skrimir finishes, confused and uncertain.

"Don't," a voice calls softly from behind him.

"General," Skrimir says, nodding, by way of greeting.

"He grew up partially in Gallia," Ike says, by way of explanation. "Apparently, so did I."

"Apparently?" That's not what his question truly is, and Ike knows it.

"The laguz on the border were worse than some of the beorc I've met," Ike mutters. "A warranted grudge is no reason to torment a child. Particularly for something out of their control. Particularly when the grudge should be theirs, as well."

"I see," Skrimir murmurs. 

"Your uncle was good to my family," Ike says, "but like I told Sanaki years ago - granted, maybe also not understanding entirely what I was talking abut, but still - ignorance is no excuse for not trying to understand that your people aren't perfect. Gallia should be proud of its heritage, but every country has an ugly side. Even if some are uglier than others."

"He won't let me apologize," Skrimir says, a little off-put.

"You took his greatest insecurity and didn't just call attention to it but _threw it in his face_ ," Ike explains. "It's _Soren._ He doesn't owe you forgiveness, and you shouldn't expect it from him. Not for this?"

"He told you?"

"I had to pry it out of him," Ike says, gently. "And you're a great guy, but if he tells me he wants to tear your limbs off, just so you know, I'm going to be helping him."

He gives Ike a weak smile. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Ike pats him on the back as he heads to the dining tent. "Don't pick any more fights with Zelgius. Never seems to work out well for anyone."

Skrimir grins. "Could probably take him, the two of us."

Ike snorts. "Or we could take him with the whole damn army. Come on, let's go grab dinner before Ilyana eats it all."

-

There is a place for pride in a king. National pride is not personal self-righteousness. He will stand tall and face the Goddess as a mere mortal, and not because he knows he can win, but because his people hope that out of all of them, _he_ can.

-

The tower stands before them, imposing and impossibly high and glittering with a sickly white sheen, an unnatural radiance. He has never been more glad to see his uncle.

(He wonders, sometimes, what it’s like to never be able to shed the mantle. What it will _be_ like, when it’s placed upon his shoulders. But when that time comes, he will not be alone.)

Skrimir braces himself for the inevitable goodbye, for the final sight of Gallia’s finest disappearing into that distorted building, for the gentle insistence that he lead the party holding the gates from the constantly spawning corpses of the dead.

He does not mind, for Ranulf will be by his side, along with the few of his people that survived the first judgement, and Giffca at that. He will hold the line proudly.

His uncle - the _King,_ he reminds himself – smiles sadly down at him, arms pulling him in for a tight hug.

He’s forgotten how much he missed the old man. He does not know how to say goodbye to him, too.

A gruff voice in his ear whispers, _“do me proud, boy,”_ and he feels his cheeks grow hot, eyes burn, because he will _try,_ and-

-and Caineghis pulls back, signaling to Ike with his chin, and says, firmly, “my nephew will accompany you in my place.”

Ike nods, shrugs, and turns back towards his tacticians. He can physically _feel_ the blood rush from his face as the words sink in. He’s never been any good at hiding his expressions, so he’s not certain what the others see, but it’s almost certainly abject horror.

They both know Dheginsea is in there, along with almost the entirety of Goldoa.

He’s certain those words would have been intended as a death sentence if they were to fall from the old man’s lips even but a year before this, maybe even interpreted as such if he were smart enough, but-

-but Caineghis smiles softly at him, a flicker of pride in his eyes, and it burns, deep within his chest. It is not entirely a pleasant feeling.

It’s a lot of trust to place in him, and he’s not entirely certain he deserves such faith.

But he’s wallowed enough, and Ranulf’s eyes bore expectantly into the back of his head as his uncle stands there and looks at him like the legion he led into a battle that froze them all beneath a cold sun: eyes full of pride.

So, he cuts down the half-baked thought that it’s more than he deserves, and thinks instead, _I will prove myself worthy of it._

***

(CAENEGHIS - PRIDE)

He watches the door close behind the boy, and thinks, _if only I had acted sooner, Gawain might have lived. He has more faith in himself and his people than I._

If he lives, then, he will sit his nephew down and ask after the deeds he’s only heard told secondhand, in Ranulf’s scrawled letters.

_Something to look forward to_ , he thinks, and unsheathes his claws.


End file.
